


Comfort & joy

by orphean



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Extended Universe, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Coming Out, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28230108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: Martha Kent wasn’t spending Christmas in Smallville.In one of the last storms of the season, a section of the roof fell off and it was alright, it was fine, but the repairs wouldn’t be done until early in the new year. It had been Bruce who had suggested it.Your mother can come here for Christmas, he’d said one lazy morning, murmuring the words against the nape of Clark’s neck.We don’t do much, but she’s welcome.Martha had been delighted when Clark had called her up, and apart from asking what she should bring –nevermind, I’ll ask Alfred– she hadn’t asked any questions.There was one question she should have asked. There was one answer that Clark should have given, unasked.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 32
Kudos: 201





	Comfort & joy

**Author's Note:**

> I had planned exactly the Superbat fic I was going to write, then I woke up one morning and this idea wouldn’t leave me alone. “Oh, it’ll be 4k, then I’ll have time to write the other one,” I thought. 9k words later, here we are.
> 
> If you celebrate, happy holidays!

Martha Kent wasn’t spending Christmas in Smallville.

In one of the last storms of the season, a section of the roof fell off and it was alright, it was fine, but the repairs wouldn’t be done until early in the new year. It had been Bruce who had suggested it. _Your mother can come here for Christmas_ , he’d said one lazy morning, murmuring the words against the nape of Clark’s neck. _We don’t do much, but she’s welcome._

Martha had been delighted when Clark had called her up, and apart from asking what she should bring – _nevermind, I’ll ask Alfred_ – she hadn’t asked any questions.

There was one question she should have asked. There was one answer that Clark should have given, unasked.

‘She doesn’t know, does she?’

They were sitting in Bruce’s study. Clark sat in the armchair with his final article of the year, reading through it one last time for any errors. Bruce was behind his desk, working on something, and didn’t look up when he asked the question.

‘I haven’t told her yet.’ Clark tried not to put too much emphasis on _yet_.

Bruce glanced up, now, and his dark eyes betrayed nothing, but Clark had learnt that _nothing_ in itself was a clue. Clark could hear him grind his teeth.

It wasn’t that Clark was ashamed. It wasn’t that Clark didn’t _want_ his mother to know, but he didn’t know how to get her from not knowing to knowing. He didn’t know how to tell her. It had been almost two years, and he still hadn’t figured it out.

‘I’ll tell her,’ Clark promised.

Bruce breathed through his nose and returned to his computer. Bruce didn’t believe him, and that hurt. Then again: Clark wasn’t fully sure he believed _himself_. They worked in silence, a thick and uncomfortable silence that Clark didn’t know how to safely break. They were waiting for Alfred to return with Martha. Clark had volunteered to pick her up, but Alfred, dry and teasing as ever, had told him he did not trust him to drive the Bentley.

In the stretching silence Clark finished his work, sent it off to Perry, and closed his work laptop. He watched Bruce from the corner of his eye, moving from tablet to laptop and back again, occasionally pulling out his phone before putting it away again. His hair was unstyled and fell into his forehead when he rolled his head, his neck making a sound that was surely just that loud to Clark.

It was Bruce who broke the silence.

‘I’m not mad at you. I’m tired.’

Clark wasn’t sure how to react. For one, he wouldn’t have expected that Bruce would even _acknowledge_ that he was tired. For another thing, he wasn’t completely sure he knew what Bruce meant. The first panicked thought was that Bruce was tired of _Clark_ , of his waffling and slowness, but he swallowed that assumption. Bruce must have seen the flash of worry on his face, and he continued:

‘It’s been a long year.’ He let his head fall against the back of his office chair. ‘Come here.’

Bruce stacked his tablet on his laptop and pushed both out of the way, clearing a place on the desk for Clark to perch on. Clark sat, and Bruce’s fingers stroked up and down the inside of Clark’s thigh, his nails scratching over the denim. He was gazing up at Clark, and Clark could see how tired he was. Under the concealer he applied each morning Clark could see the blue of sleeplessness. He touched Bruce’s face, brushing his fingertips under Bruce’s eyes.

Before they kissed, before they actually sat down and talked it over and agreed that it was a relationship, not a convenience, Clark had thought Bruce didn’t like to be touched. It was only when Bruce let him in, let him see him with his guard down, Clark realised that Bruce craved touch, craved intimacy that wasn’t sex. It took Clark by surprise the first time Bruce rested his face against Clark’s chest and fell asleep with Clark’s arms around him. Now he had grown used to the way Bruce would lean in and ask for touch without speaking. It had almost been two years. Now, sometimes, he even actually asked. For a moment, Bruce leaned his forehead against Clark’s arm.

‘Let’s go to the couch.’ Bruce looked up at him, eyes dark and open.

It wasn’t actually a couch. It was a wide chaise lounge, and Clark knew that Bruce sometimes slept there, forearm pressed over his eyes, forcing himself to rest for half an hour. Clark lay back against the pillows and Bruce rested his face against Clark’s collarbone, a hand on Clark’s stomach. Clark felt Bruce’s chest rise and fall with each breath. He ran his hand through Bruce’s hair, curling it around his fingers, scratching his scalp.

‘Have you noticed you’ve got more silver in your hair?’ Clark studied the curl of hair wrapped around two fingers, the dark brown and grey intermingled.

‘I grow old, I grow old,’ Bruce murmured.

‘You’ll wear the bottoms of your trousers rolled?’ Clark asked. Of _course_ Bruce would quote Eliot. ‘That doesn’t sound very Bruce Wayne.’

Bruce chuckled, his breath warm through Clark’s shirt.

‘I told you it’s been a long year.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I like it. It’s very’ – and Clark didn’t say _handsome_ , didn’t say _hot_ , didn’t say _really really attractive_ – ‘distinguished.’

‘Distinguished, you say?’ Clark could feel Bruce’s raised eyebrow, the sharp curve of his mouth.

‘Incredibly.’

Bruce laughed again, tired and lazy. Clark held him, an arm around his shoulders and his fingers playing with his hair. He felt Bruce’s breath slow and even into a light sleep. When he heard the tell-tale sound of the Bentley – there was something about the combustion that sounded like none of Bruce’s other cars – he stroked down Bruce’s cheek, touching his chin with his thumb.

‘Time to wake up. They’re here.’

Clark moved up the chaise lounge and Bruce got onto his knees, ruffling his hands through his hair and blinking the sleep out of his eyes. When Clark had been young, there had been stray cats living in the barn, and Clark always thought of them when he saw Bruce wake up, yawning and stretching and blinking against wakefulness. Bruce’s cheek was red from where he had rested against Clark, and his concealer was smudged.

‘You’ve got make-up on your shirt,’ Bruce declared and got up. Clark followed him to the bedroom.

They still had a few minutes before Alfred and Martha arrived. While Bruce rubbed the concealer into shape in the en-suite, Clark rummaged through the closet to find a shirt to wear. However tempting Bruce’s countless Wayne Tech-branded shirts were, he wanted one of his own shirts. When Bruce had cleared a section of the closet for Clark to keep his clothes, all of their clothes had been neatly separated. At this point, however, their shirts were hopelessly jumbled together, and when they were alone together, Clark liked to wear Bruce’s clothes, the slightly too-large fit comforting and the smell of the detergent Alfred used reminding Clark of Bruce. He found a flannel and grinned at Bruce’s frown.

‘Ready?’ Bruce asked, his hair combed back and his tie perfect. Bruce slipped into the persona of the poised CEO like others slipped into perfectly worn jeans.

‘Lead the way.’

Clark followed Bruce out of the bedroom – the bedroom that Clark had started to think of _theirs_ , not Bruce’s, and Clark realised that maybe they should talk about that – and kept a couple of steps behind him. Clark could sense Alfred and Martha on the other side of the door.

The door opened and Martha’s face lit up. She stepped through the doorway and threw her arms around Clark.

‘My beautiful boy,’ she said, holding Clark’s face between her hands. ‘I’ve missed you so much. How are you, Clark?’

‘I’m good, Ma, I’m good. How are you? How was the trip?’ 

‘It was actually lovely, really. I could get used to flying in a private jet!’ She laughed and stepped back, turning to Bruce. ‘Thank you for arranging that. I’m so grateful. Last-minute Christmas airfare is, well, a little dear for me. Would you mind if I hugged you?’

‘I think I can handle it.’

Bruce held his arms out and Martha embraced him. Bruce patted her back and half-smiled at Clark.

‘Thank you for letting us infringe on you. I hope it’s not too much of a disturbance.’ She had her hands on Bruce’s arms, looking up at him with earnest appreciation.

‘Not at all, Martha. It’s the least I can do.’ It had taken some time before Bruce had started calling Martha by her first name, and she smiled every time he did.

‘Nonsense. We’re both so grateful. I – oh Alfred, you didn’t need to do that,’ she interrupted herself when she noticed Alfred had brought in her suitcases.

‘It’s really not a problem, Mrs K.’

Clark wasn’t sure when Alfred and his mother had become friendly enough for him to call her by a nickname, but it was sweet. Clark was glad to see it.

Bruce took a careful step back, disentangling himself from Clark’s mother’s touch, and smiled at her, the epitome of a good host.

‘Alfred’s prepared the guest room for you. It’s right down the hall, second door to the right.’ Bruce pointed in the direction of the room.

‘Where will you sleep, dear?’ Martha touched her son’s arm.

Clark opened his mouth. Here was the opportunity to tell her that he was sleeping in Bruce’s room, like he did almost every night of the week, like he had since they first started sleeping together. He wouldn’t say they were sleeping together.

‘I’ll figure it out, Ma.’

‘Yes, we have plenty of couches,’ Bruce agreed. Clark could hear the bite in the words, though his mother just smiled.

‘So, what happens today? Anything I can help with?’ Martha was leaning against Clark’s side, looking up at Bruce and glancing at Alfred.

‘I would appreciate a hand with the vegetables. I usually have Master Bruce help, but for all his finesse when throwing batarangs, he is surprisingly bad at chopping brussel sprouts.’ Alfred said, and Martha laughed. Bruce huffed, eyes amused. ‘We prepare the vegetables so we can just throw them in the oven tomorrow, and we have French onion soup for dinner. I’d pretend it’s an attempt of asceticism, but it’s actually his favourite food.’

‘Well, that sounds absolutely lovely. I’d like to freshen up just a little, but after that I would love to help. I’m sure Clark would be happy to help. He’s a wiz at chopping onions without crying.’

‘Oh, I’m well aware,’ Alfred replied jovially. When he realised what he had said and noticed Martha’s nonplussed expression, he added, ‘But Mrs K, you’ll be much more delightful company.’

Martha laughed.

‘I have some business to attend to, but I will see you all at dinner.’ Bruce looked at the three of them, did a curious quarter-bow, and excused himself.

While his mother made herself at home in the guest room, Clark flew around the world, helping where he could, doing what he could to spread comfort and joy. He wouldn’t be Superman tomorrow. Diana and Barry had offered to keep a watch, and they had promised not to call in neither Bruce nor Clark unless it was a planet-wide situation. Luckily, unlike what a lot of science fiction liked to suggest, aliens didn’t actually seem interested in invading Earth during Christmas. Clark hoped it would be a quiet day for Wonder Woman and Flash. Barry had said something about a 10,000 piece puzzle.

True to his word, Bruce stayed away for the rest of the afternoon. Now and then, Clark let his senses extend and he heard him working in the Cave, his focused silence occasionally interrupted by frustrated swearing. At one point, Clark was pretty sure that Bruce dropped a wrench on himself. Clark kept Alfred and Martha company in the kitchen, chopping the onions for the soup while the other two prepared brussel sprouts, carrots, and green beans. He listened to their comfortable conversation, and he realised that they knew each other much better than he had expected. They bickered about using fresh or dried herbs in a way suggested this was a well-trod argument, where they both knew they wouldn’t convince the other, but the fight itself was part of the fun. Now and then, Martha would reach out to touch Clark, stroke her fingers over his shoulder blades or give him a one-armed hug, as though to convince herself that he was there, that he was real. Ever since he had come back, she often did this.

‘Is Bruce doing okay?’ Martha asked, addressing the question to Alfred.

Alfred, who was peeling a mandarin orange, looked over his glasses at her.

‘Yes, he’s fine. He’s tired. And he has’ – Alfred glanced over at Clark – ‘a lot on his mind. But don’t worry, he’s not unwell.’

So like Alfred, describing Bruce as _not unwell_ instead of saying _well_. Clark reached for a mandarin orange and dug his thumb through its skin. He popped the edges into his mouth, one after another, trying not to dwell on the note of chastisement on Alfred’s voice.

‘Good. I’m glad he has someone taking care of him.’

Again, Alfred looked at Clark.

Again, Clark looked away.

Martha, stringing the beans, didn’t notice.

When Bruce returned from the Cave, showered and dressed in a fresh shirt and tie, the lakehouse was warm with the smell of caramelised onions and melting cheese. He uncorked the wine and poured them each a glass. They ate at the small table in the kitchen, Alfred to Bruce’s left and Clark to Bruce’s right.

Bruce was the perfect host, listening to Martha with focused interest, sharing more of his own thoughts than he usually did, pouring wine whenever any of them ran the risk of having an empty glass. Halfway through the dinner, he rested his foot on Clark’s, and he let it stay there until he volunteered to clear up after dinner. Alfred let him take the plates and bowls and rinse them, but he insisted on filling the dishwasher himself.

It was almost ten o’clock when Martha yawned and said that she was ready to sleep.

‘I’ve been up since before it was light this morning, getting ready for the trip, so I think I need to call it a night.’

‘Of course. We’re happy to have you here.’ Bruce’s smile was soft, and Clark wondered who he included in the _we_.

‘I’m so grateful,’ Martha insisted again. She stood and put her hands on Clark’s shoulders, squeezing softly. ‘All of you, sleep well. You too, love.’

She leaned down to kiss his forehead and smiled once more at Bruce and Alfred before disappearing down the hall.

‘Master Bruce, I will also retire for the night. Don’t touch the dishwasher – it’s still running. I’ll empty it in the morning. Good night, Master Bruce. Master Clark.’

‘Good night.’

‘Good night, Alfred.’

Once the door to Alfred’s rooms had closed, Bruce stood.

‘Can we talk?’

Clark followed Bruce to the bedroom, closing the door behind them. Bruce turned and looked at Clark with his chin raised, looking down at him, his hands in his pockets.

‘I want you to tell your mother.’ 

‘I will.’

‘You’ve been saying that for a while, Clark.’ Bruce’s lips were a white line.

‘Yes, and I _will_.’

Bruce scoffed.

‘Sure you will.’

‘God, Bruce, I’ll do it. I don’t get why you are making this such a big deal.’

Even as the words left his mouth, Clark realised how wrong they were, what an absolutely cruel and heartless thing that was to say, and he was trying to find ways to walk it back, to apologise. Bruce’s face shifted from dark to pale. Clark could hear the scrape of enamel on enamel.

‘Why I am – Jesus, Clark, why I’m making this a _big deal_?’ 

‘Bruce, I’m sorry, obviously I didn’t mean it like that, I was just–’

‘ _Clark_.’ Bruce raised his voice, just a little, and Clark bit his tongue. ‘I let you help me pick flowers for my parents’ graves. I let you be there. No one, _no one_ – I’ve never let anyone else be there. Clark, I–’

Bruce’s voice cracked and he shut up, rubbing a hand over his mouth and then wrapping his arms around himself, closing himself off, backing away from Clark, taking one step away, then two. (Bruce was right. Bruce had asked him to be there. Bruce didn’t sleep the night before, and as the sun rose, he stroked Clark’s hair and told him it was time to get up. They wore Wellington boots and trudged through the fields behind the manor, picking wild summer flowers, building two beautiful bouquets that reminded Clark more of weddings than of death. Bruce sat at his parents’ grave, and when he reached for Clark, he was there. Bruce had seemed impossibly young. Clark’s heart ached for him.)

‘Bruce, I’m an idiot, I’m sorry, I–’

‘Do you know what it’s like, Clark, to fall in love with someone and never be able to tell your parents – _your parents_ – about them? I’m almost a decade older than my father ever was. My mother would have adored you. God, Clark, I’d give anything for you to meet them.’

There was a part of Clark – a childish, petulant part – that wanted to make this a worse fight, that wanted to spit that he _knew_ what it was like to lose your parents, because he’d lost more parents than Bruce had ever had, because Jor-el and Lara and Pa were dead, and, come to think of it, so was his entire _planet_. Bruce might have lost his parents, but Clark had lost his world. But, but, he reminded himself as he watched Bruce, Bruce had lost his world, too, and no matter how hard he had tried, he’d never made himself whole again.

‘I’ll tell her. Right now, we’ll go down the hall and I’ll tell her.’

‘You’re just trying to appease me.’ Bruce pressed his palms over his eyes and when he met Clark’s gaze, his eyes were dry.

‘Bruce, darling,’ Clark dared to take a step forward and touched Bruce’s hands, curling their fingers together, ‘yes, I’m trying to appease you, but you’re right. I should tell Ma, and it’s unfair to you that I haven’t. It’s unfair to _her_ that I haven’t. It’s just– it’s scary. I’m scared, and I know I shouldn’t be, and I know it’ll be fine – I mean, it’s _Ma!_ – but I’m still scared.’

‘I know. I understand. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t – I’m not being fair.’ Bruce pressed his face against Clark’s collarbone. He nestled his hand in Bruce’s hair, holding him there, wrapping his other arm around him. Bruce let him. ‘It’s not like I’ve told people.’

‘Except Alfred. And the League.’

‘It was more that _you_ told the League, and Alfred had already figured it out, so I didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know. I mean,’ Bruce moved his head, his ear pressed against Clark’s ribcage, over his heart, ‘Wayne Enterprises. Work. But gossip writers are vultures, and I don’t want to put you in the crossfire.’

‘I know, Bruce, I know.’

Bruce lifted his head and he looked down at Clark, running his thumbs over his jawline, the touch tentative and careful, as though he could hurt Clark. The kiss was just as soft, a short shared breath. Clark could never get used to how Bruce’s fury could wax and wane so quickly, flare up like hay soaked in petroleum, burn out like a match in a vacuum.

‘I’m going to tell her. Now. Come.’

Clark led the way, their fingers entwined, dragging Bruce along the dark hallway. Bruce shook himself free half-a-dozen yards away from the guest room door. Clark turned back to look at him, hand reaching out for him. Bruce shook his head, smiling softly, mouthing _Go_. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for Clark. 

In front of the door, Clark inhaled and exhaled. His hands felt clammy and his stomach felt sick. Clark hammered his fist against the door, the sound far too loud. His mother opened the door, hair braided, eyes wide in surprise.

‘I’m staying in Bruce’s room.’ Clark blurted out, unthinking, realising that he hadn’t prepared what he was going to say, but he had to say something, and that was the first thing that came out. ‘I mean, I’m staying _with_ Bruce. Bruce and I, we’re–’

The word wouldn’t come out; his tongue was too thick and heavy, his lips were dry, his face felt too hot and cold at once. His ma looked at him, the smallest smile on her face, and tilted her head. Encouraging, always encouraging.

‘Together,’ Clark finally managed.

Martha wrapped her arms around him, on tiptoes to embrace him, her hands on Clark’s neck to keep him close. Clark closed his eyes against her shoulder.

‘Thank you for telling me. I’m happy for you.’ Martha kissed his cheek and let him go. She peered around the doorframe, squinting into the dark. ‘I can’t see you, Bruce, but I’m assuming you’re loitering down there somewhere. I’m happy for you, too.’

Clark heard Bruce half-laugh in response.

‘Thanks, Ma. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.’

(The apology was intended for Bruce, too.)

Martha put his face between her hand and fixed him with a kind, focused gaze.

‘None of that. I’m grateful you trust me enough to tell me. Now,’ she smiled wryly, ‘it’s not that I’m not very proud of you, but I’ve been up since four in the morning, and I really need some sleep. We can talk more tomorrow. I love you. Merry Christmas.’

‘Love you. Merry Christmas, Ma.’

She hugged him again before closing the door between them. Clark followed Bruce back to his – their? – room. The tension that had hung between them had disappeared, and the stress Clark had seen between Bruce’s shoulders was gone.

‘Thank you,’ Bruce said when they were alone. He sat on the bed, leaning on his hands. He gazed up at Clark.

‘Of course. I’m sorry it took me so long.’

Bruce made a sound, equally chastising and forgiving. He beckoned Clark with a raised hand, and he stepped closer, standing between Bruce’s spread legs.

‘So,’ Bruce began, and Clark knew the look on his face, the teasing smile and the way those dark eyes looked him over, ‘any chance I can unwrap my favourite Christmas present early?’

Clark laughed and leaned down to kiss Bruce.

* * *

It was Christmas morning. In the countryside just outside Gotham, it was snowing. It must have been snowing since late last night, a thick layer or snow covering the ground. Bruce still slept next to him, his cold nose pressed against Clark’s shoulder. Clark disentangled himself and got ready for the day – showered, rubbed his hair dry, got dressed. He didn’t realise until after he was halfway down the hall that he was wearing Bruce’s clothes, his old, worn, comfortable sweatpants and t-shirt, and maybe he should have been wearing his own clothes? What would his mother say?

Martha’s face brightened when he turned the corner. She was sitting at the kitchen island, a chopping board with trimmed and sliced strawberries in front of her. Next to her, Alfred was whisking a batter.

‘Clark!’ she exclaimed, hopping off the bar stool to give him a hug. ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Merry Christmas, Ma.’

‘Happy Christmas, Master Clark – there’s coffee ready if you’d like some.’

Clark pulled out the coffee mug that he had started thinking of _his_ mug and poured himself some coffee.

‘No Bruce yet?’ Martha was seated again, her chin propped on the heel of her palm.

‘No, he’s not, uh, a morning person.’

Alfred scoffed.

‘Now _that’s_ an understatement. We’ll be lucky if we see him before noon.’ Alfred pulled out two pans and turned the stove on. ‘Master Clark, could I ask you to whip the cream? It’d be nice to avoid having to bring the Kitchen Aid out just yet.’

Soon, Clark was presented with a wire whisk and a bowl with cream, a touch of powdered sugar, and a generous pour of brandy. _It’s Christmas, after all_ , Alfred said as he poured a small measure in his tea. Seconds later, the cream was whipped just beyond the soft peak stage. Clark had learned that Alfred was very particular about the consistency of his whipped cream, and stiff peaks always made him curl his upper lip.

‘Your mother told me you finally told her, Master Clark.’ Afred addressed the pans, pouring a small cup measure of batter in each. ‘Well done.’

‘Thank you?’ Clark wasn’t sure if that was the right response.

‘I hope Bruce didn’t make it too difficult for you.’

‘Oh, he didn’t make it difficult at all.’ Clark didn’t even realise that that wasn’t quite true until Alfred half-turned and raised an eyebrow at him.

‘You are very good for him, Master Clark.’ Alfred presented them each a perfect crêpe. He briefly squeezed Martha’s shoulder before he returned to the stove. ‘Thank you for raising such a good man, Martha.’

Clark forgot, sometimes, that for all intents and purposes, Alfred was Bruce’s father. It was odd how comfortable it felt, chatting with his mother and Alfred like family. Martha fussed over Alfred, offering to help with the crêpes, but Alfred brushed off her attempts. He stayed by the stove, doling out fresh razor-thin pancakes to Martha and Clark, saving the occasional one for himself and, after smearing the crepe with cream and scattering it with strawberries, he rolled it up and used a fork to cut up bite-sized pieces. He ate while cooking, chatting happily with them both. It felt nice. It felt domestic. It felt right. Clark was halfway through a story about carrying a train over a broken bridge when he suddenly paused.

‘Bruce is up. He’s getting ready.’

He heard Bruce scuffle over the heavy rug. He heard him hum while brushing his teeth. He heard him wander into his closet, running his fingers over his clothes, the hangers moving on the closet rod.

‘That must come in handy,’ Martha smiled over her coffee.

‘It’s useful for keeping surprises secret,’ Clark shrugged.

All at once, he was self-conscious about how often he listened to Bruce when they weren’t in the same place. Sometimes, on slow afternoons at the Daily Planet offices, he would listen to Bruce, finding comfort in his calm breathing. Often, when Bruce was on patrol or when the League was called out together, he’d listen for Bruce, his steady heartbeat a reassurance.

‘Thanks to Master Clark we were able to surprise him with some improvements to the Suit for his birthday this year.’

‘You gave Bruce Batman things for his birthday?’ Ma laughed, and Clark was surprised at how right it felt, hearing her laugh in Bruce’s kitchen.

‘No,’ Clark stole a strawberry and scooped up the last of the cream on his plate, ‘I also bought him flowers. And chocolate.’

Bruce appeared, in pinstripe slacks and a dress shirt, the top two buttons undone. His hair was damp from the shower. He laid his hand on Clark’s back, between his shoulder blades. Clark leaned his head back, looking up at Bruce.

‘ _Terrible_ chocolate.’ Bruce insisted, grinning down at Clark before turning the grin on Martha.

‘Hey! It was Hershey’s! It’s a classic.’

‘Sometimes,’ Bruce ran the back of his thumb up the column of Clark’s neck, and Clark was so aware of Alfred watching them, his mother watching them, ‘classics can be bad.’

And Bruce kissed him, in front of Alfred, in front of his mother. It should have been an awkward angle, Clark’s face perpendicular to Bruce’s, and he had expected to be embarrassed about the public display of affection but it felt just, just right. 

‘Happy Christmas, Clark.’ Bruce touched his thumb against Clark’s lips and just barely smiled before looking up at the others. ‘Happy Christmas, Martha. Happy Christmas, Alfred.’

‘Happy Christmas, Master Bruce.’ Clark thought it was sweet that Bruce seemed to have picked up the habit of _Happy Christmas_ instead of _Merry Christmas_ from Alfred.

‘Merry Christmas, Bruce.’ Martha stood up. ‘I’m going to give you a hug. Is that okay?’

‘I’ll allow it.’

Bruce stepped away from Clark and held his hands out, palms up. Martha wrapped her arms around him, her head against his chest. Bruce patted her back, a hand on her shoulder. When she pulled back, she put her hands on his face, looking up at him. Clark glanced over at Alfred, who smiled a pleased grin at him before looking back at Bruce and Martha.

‘Be good to Clark.’

‘I try.’ Bruce’s eyes were serious, but his mouth was pursed in such a way that Clark knew he was trying not to smile. ‘I try very hard.’

‘Good.’ She patted his cheek and stepped away. ‘He deserves it.’

Bruce looked at Martha, half-smiling now.

‘Yes, he does.’ He looked back at Clark, and he looked a little flustered. Clark smiled at him. Bruce returned the smile and looked at Alfred, pointing at a plate of crêpes. ‘Are those mine?’

‘Indeed they are, Master Bruce.’ Alfred put the plate on the kitchen island and slid it down, Bruce catching it where he had sat down next to Clark. ‘And strawberries and brandy cream.’

‘What would I do without you, Alfred?’ Bruce reached for the strawberries and cream, filling the crepes and rolling them up just like Alfred.

‘Martha helped with the strawberries and Master Clark helped with the cream. A team effort, really.’

Bruce stole Clark’s mug and took a drag of his coffee, making a face at the sugar and creamer. He hooked a foot behind Clark’s ankle, glancing at him over the coffee cup.

‘Any coffee left?’

A moment later, Alfred presented Bruce with a mug of coffee. Martha sipped her coffee and looked at Clark, then Bruce, smiling softly.

‘So, tell me about the Wayne Christmas.’

‘First, we have breakfast. Crepes.’ Bruce gestured at his plate and impaled a stray strawberry on his fork. ‘Then Alfred starts working on dinner and co-opts the speakers – I hope you like English Christmas hymns – and I’ll be in the way until Alfred tells me to get lost.’

‘Typically about five minutes in,’ Alfred interjected, flipping through his phone. Clark assumed he was getting his hymns ready.

‘At one o’clock I’m called into action to stare at the oven and stove to make sure nothing catches fire while Alfred calls his family in England. At one twenty-three, I’m sent down to the cellar and pick out the wine. We eat at four, after which the plum pudding is steamed. We have _that_ with either port or madeira. Which did we do last year?’

‘Port, I believe.’ Alfred was gathering the dishes and Clark snuck in to help load the dishwasher. Alfred huffed but let him help.

‘Then madeira, this year.’ Bruce finished his crepes and slid his plate down the kitchen island, where Clark caught it before it toppled off the edge. ‘Then we read, or watch something. I’m not allowed to be in the cave after noon, so I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me for parts of the day.’

‘That’s the point, dear boy.’ Alfred interjected, pouring the last of the coffee in Bruce’s cup. He patted Bruce’s shoulder. ‘If we have presents, we do that while the pudding steams.’

‘I do have a present for you this year, Alfred. I’ll be sure to put it under the tree.’

‘Why thank you, Master Bruce.’ Alfred made a mock-bow and looked at Clark’s attempt at filling the dishwasher. He began re-arranging the plates.

‘That sounds very nice. I was hoping to go for a walk – I’d like to see some more of the grounds. Maybe I should do that before twelve so we can make the most of our time together. Clark, would you like to join me?’

‘Of course, Ma.’

Martha liked walks, but Clark knew his mother. She wanted to talk.

‘And Bruce, I guess we can’t tempt you out?’

Bruce laughed, the sound somewhere between his real laugh and the laughter he employed at countless dreary socialite events. In fact – and Clark should have noticed this before, from the moment Bruce arrived – Bruce’s shoulders were just a little tight, and Bruce’s fingers were pressing against his mug hard enough that his nails were white. Bruce was nervous, Clark realised. Bruce was nervous about what Martha thought about him. What Martha thought about them.

‘I have some things I need to work on.’

‘In the cave?’ Martha asked and beamed at Bruce’s nod. ‘Would you let me see it?’

Bruce hesitated. Alfred and Clark’s eyes met, looking at Bruce.

‘Maybe later,’ he finally managed. Apart from the League and Alfred (and Dick, about whom Bruce never spoke, and Clark never knew how to ask about), Clark didn’t think he had ever let an outsider see the Batcave.

‘It’s a plan, then. Alfred, do you need any help with the dishes?’

‘Not at all. Please, go and enjoy the grounds.’

‘Then I’ll go get ready. Good to go in ten minutes, Clark?’ 

When Martha returned, her winter jacket zipped up and a scarf looped around her neck, Bruce made a disapproving noise.

‘Wait here.’

Bruce was gone before anyone could say anything. He returned a few minutes later, a heavy wool coat over one of his arms, a beautiful fur coat over the other. He put the coat over a bar stool and held out the fur.

‘Wear this.’ Bruce said. Ma looked at the fur coat and up at Bruce, and back again. When she didn’t reach out, Bruce licked his lips and continued. ‘It’s colder than it looks. The estate is flat and there are very few windbreaks. Clark, wear this.’

With his free hand, he touched the wool coat. Clark took the coat and pulled it on. It was the coat Bruce usually wore in winter. He watched Bruce hold the fur coat out. Martha unzipped her jacket and let Bruce pull the fur on her.

‘It was my mother’s,’ Bruce explained and touched Martha’s shoulders, his fingers reverential in how he touched the coat. ‘Arctic fox. She always said that if there was any fur that would keep you warm in winter, it was the arctic fox. Wear it. Bring it back to Kansas. She’d want it to be used.’

‘Bruce, this is too much,’ Martha protested, looking at the sleeves, the pelt shimmering in brown and white and the barest hint of blue.

‘Please. You can consider it a Christmas gift.’ Bruce said.

‘Bruce–’

‘Ma.’ It wasn’t Clark’s fight, but he knew Bruce, and he knew his mother. They could both go on forever.

Martha looked at Clark, and glanced over her shoulder at Bruce. She seemed to consider before doing up the first button, then the second.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ Bruce said, and Clark knew he meant it for more than just accepting the fur coat. From the way Martha turned and embraced him, her arms around his neck and pulling him close, she must have as well. When she pulled back he smiled, embarrassed. ‘Enjoy your walk.’

They had walked for ten minutes, the several inches of snow making them move slowly, trudging along the near-invisible path. Clark had the coat lapels folded up, and he can smell Bruce in the wool, the scent of him that was as indescribable as it was intoxicating. He looked at his mother, her worn beanie at odds with the elegance of the fur, her nose flushed from the cold, her hands in the pockets of the coat. He reached out and touched her elbow, the fur soft and warm. Her hand found his and she laced their fingers together, just like she had always done when he was small, when her hand was the only thing that tethered him to earth.

‘So… you and Bruce?’ 

Clark half-laughed, and the laugh rose into the December air, light and misting tendrils.

‘Yeah. Yeah.’

Ma squeezed his hand.

‘Is he kind to you?’

‘He’s Bruce.’ The answer sat on his tongue, that he was Bruce _Wayne_ , and _kind_ was the wrong word for him, with his grief following him like a second shadow, his will to make the world make sense. But that wasn’t true. ‘Apart from you and Pa, he’s the kindest person I’ve ever met.’

Martha smiled and pulled Clark closer.

‘I said it last night, but thank you for telling me. I can’t imagine it was easy.’ Her hand wrapped around his upper arm was an anchor, comforting and warm. ‘How long have you been together?’

Clark chewed on his lip.

‘Almost two years.’

‘Two years?’ Martha breathed. ‘God, Clark, I’m so sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell me.’

‘It wasn’t– it wasn’t just that. Bruce didn’t want to tell anyone at first and it was very confusing to begin with. It took a while for us to figure it out.’ 

‘Still. I’m sorry if I did anything to make you feel like you needed to keep it a secret. I mean, considering that Bruce is…’

‘A man?’ Clark suggested, and Martha nodded, not quite looking at him, the colour high in her cheeks. He squeezed her hand. ‘Despite you baking cookies for your small group every week and organising the church potluck, I was never worried that you wouldn’t, I don’t know. I was never worried you would… disapprove.’

She squeezed his hand, putting her other hand over his.

‘I love you, Clark.’

‘I love you, Ma.’

Clark didn’t know what else to say, so he said nothing, and they plodded through the snow. Clark’s heart felt full and warm, and he was glad that his mother wanted to talk to him about this. He was grateful that Bruce had asked Martha to wear the fur coat, though he wasn’t sure if she understood just how much it meant. They walked in silence for several minutes. Martha cleared her throat. 

‘So your birthday this year…’ Clark had been wondering if she would bring this up, and he was happy it was cold enough that he could blame the heat in his cheeks on the cold, as though either of them would believe that. ‘When Bruce called and said he happened to find himself in Kansas for business and invited himself to dinner, that was less – what’s the word – serendipitous than I was led to believe?’

Clark chuckled.

‘Something like that.’

‘And I would guess,’ his mother’s voice dropped low and conspiratorial, ‘that perhaps he didn’t _actually_ stay in the guest room?’

(Bruce’s eyes had glowed in the soft May moonlight where he lay sprawled on Clark’s childhood bed. _I can’t believe you had a solar system mobile_ , he had teased, and Clark had shut him up with kisses. They had been quiet, so quiet, and the entire time Clark’s heart had hammered furiously, terrified and excited about the thought of being discovered.)

‘I plead the fifth,’ Clark choked and his mother laughed.

They trudged through the snow, their boots making that dry crunching sound that Clark could never decide if it was comforting or unsettling. Martha stopped and turned to face Clark. She took his hands and looked up at him. Clark swallowed his anxiety.

‘Does he make you happy?’ 

‘Yes.’ Clark was relieved, surprised, at how easy it was to say that, to admit this to his mother.

‘And he’s good to you?’ 

‘Yes. He’s very good to me.’ Clark thought about Bruce. The way he viewed everything as a puzzle to be solved. The way he ran his fingers down Clark’s back. The way he invited Clark into his life, making room for him, wanting him there. The way his hair stood on end when he woke up from a nap. Clark hesitated for only a second. ‘I love him.’ 

‘And he loves you.’ She didn’t say it as a question, but a statement: confident, declarative.

‘Yes,’ Clark agreed.

Ma embraced him, the fur soft against his jaw, her cheek cold against his cheek. Clark wondered, suddenly, if Martha Wayne had ever embraced her son while wearing this coat. If she had, he was sure that the young Bruce would have felt just as loved and safe as Clark felt in that moment. He put his arms around his mother and let gravity fall away to make her laugh in surprise in the way she always did, still delighted when her son used his powers without fear, without worry.

When they dropped back to the ground, the snow yielding under their heavy soles, they talked about other things. She told him about the latest installment of the church potluck committee drama, about crop yields and crop rotations and the minutiae of all her neighbours’ farms. He told her about work, both civilian and Superman’s. She asked him if the League knew about him and Bruce. He laughed, embarrassed, and told her they did, but refused to answer any follow-up questions. (Sometimes, Diana would still gently make fun of him for how they had found out, Clark kissing Batman in full view of everyone after a round of projectiles found home and for one terrifying, terrible moment, Bruce’s heart had faltered. Barry had tripped over his feet in surprise and Arthur had said that that had _not_ been on his superhero bingo card. By the soft smile on Victor’s face, Clark had a feeling he had already figured it out.)

They were heading back, taking the long way round, when Clark heard that familiar heartbeat. He turned his head, and saw Bruce approaching. There was snow in his hair and a soft sheen of ice in his eyelashes, bright against the dark of his eyes. He was just wearing a blazer and a thin cashmere scarf, something tucked under his arm. He was almost level with them when they both spoke. Just as Clark said–

‘Jesus, Bruce, you need to _wear a jacket–_ ’

Bruce said–

‘Come visit my parents with me.’

Clark was halfway through unbuttoning the heavy coat when Bruce’s words sank in.

‘Your parents?’ Clark echoed, the buttons forgotten. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother take a step out of the way, giving them space.

‘Yes, my parents.’ Bruce breathed heavily, and Clark could see his frame shudder in the cold. He made quick work of the rest of the buttons as Bruce continued. ‘I go to see them on Christmas. Just to–’

He broke off again to shiver again, press his bare hand against his nose and breathe. Clark knew it would annoy Bruce, but he used his speed and wrapped the coat around Bruce. Bruce huffed but pulled his arms into the sleeves, moving the white-wrapped something from under his arm to his hand. He didn’t protest when Clark did the coat up for him, nor when Clark took one of Bruce’s hands and put it under the collar of his shirt, the freezing fingers almost burning against Clark’s neck. He touched Bruce’s face, warming his nose and ears with his palms and thumbs, letting his warmth seep into Bruce’s skin.

‘Christ, Bruce, why would you leave the house without wearing anything warm?’

‘I wanted to catch you before you came back. I wanted you to come with me. You don’t have to.’

‘Of course I’ll come.’

Clark took the object Bruce was holding, and he felt a thorn press through the paper. He was bringing roses. Clark put Bruce’s other hand against his bare neck as well, pressing his finger down below his collar. Bruce looked at him, his face cold and his lips chapped, and Clark wanted to kiss him. So he did. A short kiss, barely anything at all. Clark wanted to kiss him warm, to bite away the cold in his skin and the cold in his heart. Bruce curled his fingers against Clark’s neck, his manicured nails unsuccessfully marking his skin.

Bruce stepped away, digging his hands into the coat pockets, fishing out a pair of gloves and pulling them on. He looked over at Martha, and Clark wondered if any of the pink in his cheeks was embarrassment rather than cold.

‘You can come as well, if you want.’

‘Thank you.’ Martha smiled softly at them.

Bruce led the way, a gloved hand wrapped around Clark’s, Martha following a few steps behind. He stopped by the gate of the small cemetery and breathed. He let go of Clark and pushed the gate open. The hinges creaked. Bruce didn’t hesitate before he stepped through, and Clark and his mother followed.

The cemetery was small, the gravestones of several generations of Waynes kept pristine. Clark had only been once before, when Bruce had brought him on the anniversary of his parents’ death. _It’s consecrated ground, you know,_ he had mentioned, halfway through a bottle of scotch. _When I die, that’s where I will rest._ Clark hadn’t said anything, and had been grateful when Bruce had started telling him about how every Wayne who was buried there, from the first Wayne to settle in Gotham to the eccentric great grandfather who thought there were owls in the walls. 

Bruce reached his parents’ gravestone. Clark touched his mother’s shoulder and she stopped as well, both of them a few feet away. He unwrapped the tissue paper and pulled out two red roses, tied together with a plain ribbon. He kneeled before the gravestone, placing the roses in front of it. Bruce pulled off a glove and traced his fingers over the stone, brushing off the snow that had nestled in the engraved letters. Almost six months to the day ago, Bruce had leaned his forehead against the stone and stayed there, Clark not sure whether to touch him or let him be. Today, Bruce studied the gravestone, his eyes dry and his mouth tight. After a few minutes of sitting in silence, he stood and dusted off the top of the gravestone, moving around the pebbles that had been placed on it. He unbuttoned his coat and Clark took a half-step forward, but he closed his mouth when Bruce put his hand in his blazer pocket and withdrew a smooth round stone. He put it on the gravestone and bowed his head, eyes closed.

He stepped back.

‘Happy Christmas,’ he murmured.

Clark thought that Bruce would turn back to them and they would walk back to the lakehouse, but Bruce walked deeper into the cemetery and stopped in front of a smaller headstone, the name and dates swallowed by snow. Here, too, Bruce kneeled and brushed his bare fingers, the name _Richard Grayson_ revealed by his fingertips. Another rose was laid by this grave. Another smooth pebble was placed on the gravestone.

‘Happy Christmas, Dick.’

Bruce worked his jaw and blinked, looking away from the stone and staring into the distance. Fists deep in his pockets, he looked at nothing. When he turned back and trudged through the snow, his eyes were tired, the corners of his mouth downturned. He took Clark’s hand, his fingertips freezing from the stone and snow, and began to lead them back to the lakehouse.

They could see the house in the distance, the lights bright and inviting in the December grey, when Bruce stopped again. He glanced up at Clark, then Martha. He looked away.

‘Thank you for coming. Both of you.’

Martha reached out and touched his arm, squeezing softly. Bruce looked down at her hand on his arm, then up at her. She smiled at him and he did something with his face – a twist of his mouth, a slight frown in his eyebrows – that betrayed his unspoken appreciation.

They walked.

It started snowing again as they approached the house, soft flakes landing in their hair. They felt like icy kisses against Clark’s bare arms. Bruce opened the door to the house, shedding his coat and shaking out the snow before kicking his shoes off. Martha hung the fur coat next to Bruce’s coat. She smiled at them.

‘I’m going to see if Alfred wants any help. Give the two of you some time alone.’ Martha put her boots on the shoe rack before she padded down the hallway to the kitchen.

They walked to the bedroom, Bruce’s hand cold in Clark’s. Bruce closed the door behind them. His cheeks were still pink with cold, the snow in his hair barely melted. He didn’t shy away when Clark reached out to undo his tie, his shirt, taking his hands and leading him to bed.

‘You’re cold,’ Clark said. ‘Let’s warm you up. I don’t want you to catch a cold.’

‘I’m not a fucking Victorian heroine.’ Bruce half-protested with a tone of amusement, leaning on his elbows to watch Clark get undressed.

‘Under the covers. Come on.’

Clark pulled at the top sheet, made since the morning, and Bruce lifted his hips and slid between the covers. Bruce’s nose was cold against the hollow of Clark’s neck, his hands ice brands against the plain of Clark’s back. Clark brushed his fingers down Bruce’s spine, feather-light touches warming cool skin.

‘Better?’

‘Much better.’

Clark leaned back and tilted Bruce’s face so their eyes met. Bruce had moved his hands, pressing them flat against Clark’s stomach. Clark wondered what it’d be like to shiver from cold. Bruce always did make him want to shiver. 

‘Thank you for letting us come with you. I know’ – and Clark wasn’t sure how to say it, each iteration that ran through his head insufficient to express how much Clark understood what this _meant_ , so he gave up on the sentence – ‘I know.’

For a second, less than a second, Bruce looked unbearably sad; the grief behind his eyes; the loneliness etched in the line of his mouth. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again he looked like he always did, that calculated unreadability that Clark had not quite cracked, but _almost_.

‘How was your walk?’ Bruce asked, meaning: _How was your talk?_

‘Good, I think. We talked.’

Clark let his eyes flutter shut when Bruce started moving his hands over his body, his fingers still a little cold. When Bruce’s fingers dipped below his waist, down along the seam of his jeans, Clark was intensely aware of his mother down the hall, Alfred chatting merrily with her. But – oh – Bruce always touched him with such purpose, an irresistible focus.

‘Alfred’s been saying’ – Bruce hooked a hand around the back of Clark’s knee, hoisting him on top of him, and Clark didn’t really care what Alfred had been saying when Bruce’s thumbs were hooked in his belt loops like that – ‘that when your mother knows he’ll finally have someone on his side.’

‘And what side is that?’

Clark kissed Bruce’s neck. He could taste winter on his skin.

‘The side of “when will this stubborn son of a bitch settle down and consider the future of the Wayne family name.” _That_ side.’

Bruce looked at him with half-raised eyebrows and a supercilious smile, an expression Clark recognised from whenever Bruce tried to scandalise him with some lascivious suggestion or dirty joke. The easy expression didn’t match the tattoo of heart, beating like a hummingbird’s. Nor did it seem to match the question – suggestion? – Clark wondered if Bruce was trying to ask.

‘Yeah?’

Clark found Bruce’s hand and threaded their fingers together. Bruce looked at him with those impenetrable eyes, dark like the ocean.

‘I’ve been a father once.’ Bruce brought Clark closer and Clark felt Bruce close his eyes, his eyelashes fluttering against Clark’s cheek. ‘Dick would have adored you.’

‘Would you tell me about him sometime?’

‘Some day. Not today.’ Then, as though he couldn’t help himself: ‘He was like sunlight and hope. Just like you.’

Clark ran his free hand up and down Bruce’s side, tracing fingertips over old and new scars. He didn’t say _I wish I had met him_ because, as true as it was, it felt like a cut-and-copy answer and Clark wasn’t sure how Bruce would react. Bruce was still under his touch, his eyes drifting close in satisfaction. Bruce was warming under Clark’s fingers.

‘I ran some numbers. I put the likelihood of them ganging up on us at fifty percent. Minimum. You might want to think about it. About what you want.’ Bruce looked up at him, his eyes content. ‘If you want to, I’d be amenable.’

Bruce made the suggestion in the tone he used, low and calm and assured. Clark blinked, his mind trying to catch up.

‘You’re talking about – kids, right? Like, children? Real, human children?’ 

‘Children tend to be human, yes,’ Bruce agreed. He squeezed Clark’s hand and smiled up at him, sly and amused.

‘I – I mean, typically people tend to live together, or, um, be married before they do this kind of thing.’ Clark could hear how flustered he sounded, the squeak of his voice, the words tumbling from his mouth like water from a burst dam.

‘You basically live here already,’ Bruce said, stroking his thumb over Clark’s inner wrist, his voice even, his smile small, ‘and I’d marry you this minute. Alfred’s an ordained minister, and I guess we’d need to find a second witness, but I’m sure Diana wouldn’t mind.’

‘Could you say that again?’

‘Which part? Alfred is an ordained minister? I suggested it as a joke once, but you know how Alfred is.’

‘No, stupid, the other thing.’ Clark’s mouth felt very dry. Bruce just smiled at the insult.

‘Oh, the other thing?’ Bruce sat up, still holding Clark’s hand, their breaths mingling. Bruce smiled, smiled, smiled, and said, oh-so-easily: ‘I’d marry you this minute.’

‘You want to marry me?’ Clark exhaled.

Bruce looked at Clark, and Clark wanted him to look at him like that forever, always and ever.

‘I do.’

Clark stared at him. Clark swallowed.

‘Let’s do it.’

‘Yeah?’ Bruce raised an eyebrow.

‘Yeah, let’s get married. Not right _now_ , but let’s do it. Let’s get married.’

Bruce kissed him, once, twice, three times, enough times that Clark lost count, each kiss small and tender. He pulled back and studied Clark, his expression now serious.

‘Are you sure? Marriage certificates are part of the public record, so everyone would know.’

‘I want everyone to know.’

‘Are you sure? You told your mother’ – he glanced at his watch – ‘thirteen hours ago.’

‘I want everyone to know.’ Clark said again, and he had felt sure before, but he was even surer, suddenly longing for everyone, _everyone_ , to know. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

They kissed again, long and deep and slow. When Bruce came up for air, his mouth was red from kissing and he was so beautiful that Clark couldn’t help but kiss him again. He felt Bruce smile into the kiss.

‘There’s a couple of people in the kitchen we should maybe tell first,’ he murmured.

‘Bet you twenty bucks that Alfred says this is the best Christmas present he could imagine.’

Bruce laughed.

‘And here I thought I could make him happy with a first edition Tennyson.’

‘That’s a very thoughtful gift.’ Clark said as he kissed his way down Bruce’s throat, down his chest. ‘But I think this is a better gift.’

‘That it is,’ Bruce agreed, his fingers in Clark’s hair. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you,’ Clark said, the words tasting sweeter than ever, now that he knew he could say them every day for the rest of their life together.

Later, after they had gotten undressed and dressed again, Bruce stopped with his fingers on the door handle, turning back to look at Clark. He caught him by the tie, tied into some elaborate knot that Bruce had spent several minutes doing up, and pulled him in for a kiss.

‘Ready?’ Bruce asked.

‘Ready,’ Clark said.


End file.
